SoMa Snippets
by ChaosViper
Summary: Short snippets and drabbles for when my mind just won't sleep. Centered around our favorite couple from Soul Eater. Rated M for possible...probable...likely debauchery!
1. Thermodynamics

**1. Thermodynamics**

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><p>Those eyes she'd come to love. The ones that burned with the light of a thousand and one suns. His gaze always set ablaze something deep in her gut. Despite her studious and usually impervious nature, this was something she simply knew nothing about. No amount of studying could have prepared her for this - why a mere glimpse of his eyes beneath those messy silver locks could ignite such a fire down under. Not even a fire. Her insides needed to stop playing jump rope with themselves <em>right now<em>.

Why couldn't she just read in peace!

Focus, Maka. What is this? A perfectly natural physical response due to external stimuli. That's all. Yes, a physical response. Something beyond my control. This heat has nothing to do with me. It's Soul's fault. What was the word? Radiation? Right!

"You're having a physics lesson in your head?" His grin literally went from ear to ear. She gasped when she realized she'd forgotten to close the link. "Are you really that desperate for a distraction? Maybe I can help."

"Soul, just stop with the-"

He disappeared beneath the desk, and she squeaked loudly when warm, large hands removed her sandals and tossed them into the corner. One of her legs was pulled out from beneath the desk, but it could only go so high before making contact with the back of the wooden structure. He was hidden beneath this piece of furniture that had become like a haven, and the fact that she couldn't see him set her heart to jumping even faster. What in the heck did he think was he doing?

Those hands began stroking up and down her left calf in slow, particular movements. Maka let out a humorous "eep!" in surprise, and Soul silently chuckled beneath her.

"Did you know you have a mole behind your knee? I think it's fuckin' adorable."

"Soul!"

"Oh, my bad. _Freaking_ adorable."

He situated himself so that only his head was visible beneath the desk. As he gazed up at her petite form from beneath the wooden sanctuary, a telltale drop of drool began forming at the corner of his mouth. It surprised her initially. He hadn't had the drooling problem for quite a while. She figured he grew out of it. Maybe that wasn't the case. Maka reminded herself this was probably not a good sign.

He laughed. She'd forgotten to close the link _again_. This lack of foresight was definitely not like her. Not that he was complaining.

Lifting her left knee again, Soul's face drew ever closer as the hot breath from his mouth danced over her porcelain skin. Maka's legs spread instinctively, and her toes quivered in anticipation. She gasped as the heat of his breath moved farther and farther up her leg, dancing around that spot where knee ended and lower thigh began.

"Define."

As if she could under this kind of torture. How was she supposed to handle this? No! She was Maka Albarn. Star student and most excelled meister since Kami Albarn had graced the hallways of Shibusen. Her composure was stronger than this. Even though it was Soul, her closet crush for the past four years, lavishing her with attention, she was certain she could get through this little game of his with the majority of her dignity still intact. Definitely. Why not?

His breath graced higher up her thigh, reminding her that she still hadn't answered him.

C-c-convection. Transfer of heat by way of an indirect medium…l-l-like air."

" 'Kay."

She was pleased with herself for only minimal fumbling. She was taken aback, however, when the sensation of something warm, wet, and slippery began running itself up the length of her thigh. She jumped in her chair, but the desk and Soul's grip on her thighs ensured that she didn't go very high.

"Soul, what…!"

"I thought I was helping you. Come on, Maka. Don't give up. Define."

He didn't pull his mouth away with his response. His words vibrated against her leg, and she braced her arms and upper body on the desk in order to regain some sense of composure. It wasn't a very successful attempt.

His tongue continued sauntering higher and higher, sending tremors down her spine with every pass of that glorious muscle. He pulled her chair further under the desk to gain better access and move up even more. Now her skirt was in his path, but he just pushed it up and out of the way.

"Mmmh…"

"Yeth?"

"C-c-conduction?"

"Definithin?" He slurred again, because the heat from his tongue never broke contact with her skin. He was at the border between upper thigh and pelvic bone, and his head had erotically disappeared again beneath the plaid blanket of her skirt. She would have laughed had she not been so hot, bothered, and undeniably preoccupied at the moment.

"T-t-transfer of heat b-between objects that…that come into d-direct con-TAAAACT…!"

Exemplified by his scorching tongue suddenly working its magic on her more feminine regions.

"…w-with each other."

"It's called applied science, Maka," Soul proclaimed. "Should we move on to the next chapter?"

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><p>www . chaosviper . tumblr . com<p> 


	2. Hands On

They are small and somewhat insignificant. Packed with power, but he can enclose one with his entire fist. Like a child, she still bites her nails at times until they bleed. Her cuticles are chewed through to the meat, and she keeps tissues in her pockets to soak up any partially-dried blood. He contributes this habit to a life of stress, studying, and excessive expectations, the latter of which is probably her own fault to begin with.

The gloves are a nice touch, but they're meaningless to a partner who can see into her mind. They hide her problem from the rest of the world, and allow for better handling of him during more grueling battles. But sometimes, he secretly wishes she would take them off. To feel skin against steel, skin against skin, and establish some deeper connection with his partner on the battlefield that isn't hindered by pieces of stitched cotton.

She thinks her habit makes them ugly, and uses the excuse that showing too much skin is brazen and unladylike. Who would want to see them, anyway?

Yeah. Tell that to her legs. Which definitely like to loaf openly about the apartment and make him ogle like a frat boy.

He's not always an insensitive jerk with a big mouth. But sometimes, despite his better judgement that pissing her off is hardly a good idea, he just has to feel her hands against him. Without the stinking gloves. Rage-induced or otherwise.

Constantly berating her for her breast size is one way. Sticking his own hands in places they don't belong is another. The second method being the most expedient for instant gratification.

His reunions with a hardback are necessary mainly when his offenses are limited to saying something stupid. Her fist is introduced when it directly involves the invasion of her person. And lucky for him, she has wonderful aim.

She forgives the "incidental" brush against her ass as he passes. She can forget the "inadvertent" almost-kiss as he reaches for the peanut butter in the cabinet above her head. However, an "accidental" face in her rear when he "accidentally" trips and falls in the hall is a bit too much for a certain scythe meister with an already-dwindling body complex.

Pandora smiles. Soul closes his eyes and braces for impact.

But the inevitable collision of fist to face never comes. Instead, she'd rather stand in front of him cold turkey, not necessarily with a look of anger on her face, but worrying callused hands through white gloves that aren't exactly white anymore. Her fists clench tightly enough to visibly strain the fabric.

The knot in his throat and overwhelming billow of anticipation are only secondary to the green beams of death shooting from her eyes. It's an old-fashioned standoff, but even against his weaponless meister, his odds of victory are slim at best. He knows firsthand the goddess-like death grip she can muster under pressure. Under normal circumstances, this would be the desired result. However, her unnerving gaze and lack of response to pretty much anything thus far frightens him more than he cares to admit.

Then it hits him. She's figured out his game. And she's ready to call him on it.

A smart soul eater would take that moment of realization to run for the hills. Or the nearest lockable room that can withstand the raw fury that is Maka Albarn on an off day. But if his grades are any indication, Mr. Evans is not that smart. Or quick to react when his meister comes at him like a bulldozer ready to level the nearest malleable object.

He's on the floor instantly. And with the weight of her tiny form putting pressure on all the right places, he's not immediately opposed to this new predicament. Still scared shitless, he can think of far worse things that her position might impose. Things she might be getting to momentarily, if he's unlucky.

Which may be the case. Is she…? She might be. She is. She's fucking smiling. Why in the world is she smiling?

Panic sets in. He can deal with angry Maka. He can even handle Maka on the rag. Given his bike helmet is nearby in order to protect his head from flying projectiles. But smiling, deceptively happy Maka, when she knows full well that he's been up to something not all-together supportive of her increasingly questionable chastity?

He should have hauled ass when he had the chance.

He tries to escape. He really puts forth an honest effort. Even if his cool reputation goes up in a cloud of smoke, no one can say he didn't at least try to fight like hell as she sits on his legs, leaving him prostrate on his stomach and open to further mauling. It's not that she's heavy. Quite the opposite. It's just that her toned and experienced thigh muscles have the grip of a bear trap that make any chance for escape simply a moot point.

His arms are trapped between her elbows in a second, molded into such odd angles that he simply cannot stop the shouts and whimpers that result from muscles being pulled so taught. She's using her entire upper body to hold them in place, and the feel of her pelvis making contact with his ass and lower back does not help the situation at all.

Even he has to admit how comical the awkward hoppity-hop on his knees might look to any questioning onlookers, with a triumphant meister astride his back like a cowgirl at a rodeo. It's more like the worm, as his face and chest smack against the ground with every effort at actual movement.

Eventually, he has to give up at the door to his room. Because a captive worm trying to open a door three feet above its head just does not compute in the grand scheme of things. And she is definitely not letting up. His face plants into the floor one last time with a thump, and the skin is red and smeared with carpet burn. He moans loudly, and a silent but inaudible curse is barely deciphered.

Despite being nearly out of breath herself, Maka has more than enough strength to spare. Enough to lift herself up and place her chin on the top of his head in victory. His spikey hair tickles her nose as he shifts, and she giggles in a voice that definitely betrays the strength she just portrayed. She gives a peace sign that he can't see, a silent tribute for a battle well-fought and won.

Or so she likes to tell herself.

"Give up?"

He thinks about that for a moment. Will Black Star ever let him live this down? Heaven knows Maka wouldn't keep quiet about it. Can he ever go near the ninja again without the inevitable "You got your pussy handed to you!" drowning in his ears?

Hell no. Fuck no. She may have won a crucial battle in this game, but she is not going to win the war.

He's got one thing on his side: the ability to transform. When there is no longer any flesh, leather, or white hair to hold on to, her arms and legs fall asunder, and she's sprawled on the floor atop a long piece of metal. But not for long, because he uses her moment of mental dissolution to transform back and roll away, gaining a quick and possibly unfair upper hand. He won't admit to himself outright how beautiful she looks beneath him once he's on top of her, or how freaking inviting her skirt looks wedged somewhere between her knees and upper thighs, but he gets the feeling that she knows, because the blush on her face simply will not ebb.

His hands on her waist aren't helping. But his legs are busy pushing hers together, and he's just not sure where they should go. He might try to keep her fists from hitting him, but they're moving at a speed and intensity that would make his bike seem like a snail in comparison. She's not punching very hard, but the second he allows this thought to pass through his cerebral cortex, her attack on his chest intensifies ten-fold.

"Soul, you're a no-good, dirty, rotten cheater, and I hate youuuu~!"

"Am I supposed to let you kill me-heee?" The last word escapes in a puff of air as he swears her fist makes direct contact with his diaphragm. Or something else vital to the process of breathing, though he's not sure what.

The more she struggles, the higher her skirt rises. If not for his life being in immediate danger of extreme meister rage, he might try to prolong this as long as possible. Especially since her small hands making contact with various parts of his body are not only amusing, but exciting to his battle-deprived nerves, as well. When one of her legs escapes, he has to clamp down on her harder to keep it from flying incessantly between his own, saving one crucial part of him from being smashed and subsequently KOing the weapon for good.

Maybe it's because they're both warriors, and neither can back down from a fight once it presents itself. She has more experience in this area of combat, since he's usually the one sitting back and letting her do all the heavy work, using him as the tool to victory. But weapon blood still flows through his veins, and the profuse sweating, the straining of muscles, the painful urge to overcome any adversity, even if it's his own partner, might do well to explain what's come over them both.

The heat of battle. Whether on an actual battlefield, or in their very own apartment, it still ticks like a time bomb inside his head. She's struggling for dominance, using those wonderful and powerful and sexy legs to try and push him off, and he can't explain why exactly this gets his blood pumping so hotly. She no longer cares that he's getting an eyeful of kittens every time she tries to kick him, but oddly enough, the allure this affords is only secondary to the way her eyes light up with green fire and determination. That's the face. The I'm-going-to-bust-you-up-so-badly-your-kids-will-come-out-with-skid-marks face that lets him know she means business.

He's got what he wanted. Her hands are on him, and vice versa. Meister and weapon roll around on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs and boots, at times one getting the upper hand, and sometimes the other. Most of the time, he is on top of her, because with more momentum gifted by heavier body weight, he can swing her form to the ground with relative ease. But despite his slight advantage, this is Maka he's dealing with - never take her lightly, and he might yet live to see the next five minutes.

Her chest is heaving, and a few of her coat's buttons have come undone. Or they cease to exist, because they are no longer attached, probably casualties to the war on the floor. Her face is red, she's hot and sweaty, and Soul can think of nothing except how ecstatic he is to have a meister like her. This is what they were meant to do, after all. Fight, until someone emerges the victor. Perhaps not with each other, but it's what they do best. Even if it's not him winning now, or ever again, he might consider losing to Maka if he could see this side of her more often.

Her struggles and tugs against his person get to him far deeper than he should probably allow. She's moving and twitching and grunting and making all those perfect noises and _would you stop for just a second, woman_? She's hot all over, her clothes plastered to her wet skin leave little to the imagination, and sending an army of enticing aromas to greet his better-than-average sense of smell. He wants to remove them from her, maybe help her get into something clean, but he knows he's doomed if he even tries to get that far. That, and because she's still rubbing up against him, and it shouldn't feel as good as it does.

He can't help it. Her throat is open, it's exposed, it's right there, red and puffy and inviting from their former exertions. She smells so good, won't she tilt her head up more so he can see? She does, only to look into his red eyes with those tepid pools of green, and he can't anymore, he just can't, he's lost. His teeth gravitate to her neck like a rogue star to a black hole, and she tastes like the body wash they share in the bathroom.

He's never been one to think that Old Spice generally smells acceptable. But on her, it's a smorgasbord of delightful aromas, and one he doesn't mind, no needs, to be tasting further. He does, and she gasps.

She's caught somewhere between angry and aroused. However, she shows few objections when his legs push her own apart so he can settle perfectly between them, because heaven knows this space was designed specifically for him. Curious hands wander to places a certain elder scythe would prefer remain untouched, but when nimble fingers begin churning hot skin like butter and molding it to fit perfectly into his hands, the meister whose heart is winning an Olympic race inside her chest can't help but draw herself closer to the weapon's eager advances. She can't protest anyway, because his probing mouth is holding hers hostage.

She's never been able to resist those hands; not since she saw him playing piano the very first time. And now, at the mercy of those careful digits, she's becoming aware of what they can really do.

Maka thinks of a million reasons why they shouldn't be doing this. She really tries to talk herself out of it, despite how resistance is futile with him at this point. However, she can think of a million and _one_ reasons why they should, and to him, that's more than enough incentive to give her a lesson in what having a _partnership_ truly entails.

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><p>c h a o s v i p e r . t u m b l r . c o m<p> 


	3. Incandescent

Soul never has a problem donning formal attire if the occasion warrants a particular manner of dress. His closet is full of dress suits, shoes, and ties appropriate for any standard of event that Kid may feel wont to host for a particular Saturday evening. In fact, she suspects it feels like second nature to her weapon, when considering that a suit is his default outfit within the not-so-private sanctuary of the ethereal Black Room. For a pianist, dressing up suits him just fine.

She likes the way he looks in nice clothes. Not that she really minds the odd fashion sense he's developed over the years they've been together. She prefers attire that shows off his good side, and accentuates all of his more appealing qualities. One can only look so masculine while wearing a noticeably girlish headband barely masked by layers of white hair. But despite teasing him about it occasionally, it really is the best way to keep his unruly locks at bay on those exceptionally bad hair days when those spikes just won't cooperate.

She doesn't think it really matters what he wears. However, she's come to the decision that suits and other formal garb are the only things that do her musician-weapon-turned-boyfriend justice. He's chosen to go without the headband tonight. He's wearing a silver-striped suit extremely similar to the one displayed in his foreboding mind theater. It's both stunning and disconcerting, flattering and exciting, but mostly mysterious and captivating. It's no surprise to her that he seems to draw attention from the other attendees to the party from the get-go, and they drag him along and out of her grasp to get lost in the fanciful gathering.

Liz encourages him to play the grand piano in the corner. As usual, he politely refuses. A little teasing from Black Star definitely doesn't change his mind, but his meister's arm catching itself in the crook of his elbow provides enough encouragement to get him to play. That's right. They've heard it before. His latent abilities are no longer a secret. He's got nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide, and if he's honest with himself, they all really enjoy hearing him play.

He's made for the stage, born for an audience. The lights dim, and the piano is provided with its own illumination as he takes a seat and begins working magic upon the instrument. The way his hands glide over smooth piano keys beneath the intense glow of the florescent downpour, the fierce and determined concentration as his eyes shut tight to play, his mind zoning into the moment until the entire world is made of chords and scales - none of it ever ceases to amaze his flaxen-haired meister.

Opening his eyes long enough to flash the girl a sharp and toothy grin amidst the incandescent melody, it takes but only a second to transmit the message of," You're next" to the flustered and stuttering girl at the other end of his soul link. A silent shiver travels up her spine at the implications such motions have to her own skin. Only her weapon could make something like this turn into a heated problem.

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><p><strong>c h a o s v i p e r . t u m b l r . c o m<strong>


	4. Wasted

She doesn't know how to voice a response to his hands molding the pale arches that are the backs of his meister's knees. They are the cause of her stomach leaping suddenly into her throat. His nails tickle her goose-fleshed skin and send shivers directly to the part of her still concealed by the fabric of a skirt. She doesn't remember how to speak - speech? what is that? - because the hydroxyl coursing through her system steals any coherent action before it can be processed by her bookworm brain.

He sort of laughs-snorts because the lined patterns of her skirt are dancing behind his eyes. _Lines don't dance, stupid! They stay in one place. Squiggles dance... ~ _A hand flying to his mouth isn't quick enough to stifle the sound before it's released into blessed air. He snorts again because it's funny to his cat-scratched mental process, and this time she reciprocates with an unabashed giggle, because they're both slammed like fuck and her weapon is turning into a blubbering bovine between her legs.

His face falls forward into the canyon formed by her thighs. She's still laughing, and so is he, but it's muffled by flushed epidermis and cool leather against his cheeks. Because her skin and this soft surface are the limits of the known universe, and the concept of an outside world is mind-boggling at best.

Her utterances quickly turn into a gasp, however, as his unruly locks tickle her inner legs. They reflexively pull themselves up and toward her torso to escape the strange sensation, unintentionally assaulting her partner with a worm's eye view of his meister's girlish underwear. His unceasing inebriation doesn't immediately allow his brain to process the significance of this new discovery, but the aroma of moist flesh and pheromones bombarding his nostrils don't immediately match up to the girly floral pattern he sees before him. _Since when do lilies smell like Maka?_

His nose can't help but draw itself closer, because slammed or not, he must solve this curious puzzle. He won't be outdone by plump and inviting posies.

"Why do you smell so good?"

She shivers, toes twitching at the base of his spine. She can feel his breath down there, even through all the fabric, but she doesn't seem to care, because the world is soup.

"I-I don't-aaaah!"

"Aaaahh…fuck, Maka. This is n-nice."

Correction. The world is not soup. It's composed of a substance highly more unstable than a mere side dish. It's a nuclear reaction. His face is the catalyst, and it's initiated the start-up sequence. Through the mental haze and the sound of her incessant gasping that he should keep doing what he's doing forever, if possible, she tacks herself a mental Post-It to never, ever again complain when he accidentally drinks too much booze at one of Kid's parties. Soul is grateful, and rewards her with a NASA-esque blast off to the stars.


	5. Ruby

**Part 1 in a series of 7 word prompts from Grigori Wings. **

**1. Ruby**

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><p>Hard. Unyielding. Impenetrable. Soft yet callused heads sinking into stone-like abdominals. A series of erratic gasps and moans quickly escaping into unoccupied air. His scar aching beneath polished nails. His focus temporarily drawn to hips pushing into his own, and feminine cries resounding against pale walls, predominantly composed of some raspy and indiscernible version of his name. He can mentally push it all aside. Forever. Any time. Anything to bear witness to the way her hair looks reflected in alabaster moonlight as she loves him. As he loves her.<p>

"Soul, I...uuhhnn...harder? De-eeper?"

"Okay."

Her words, useless. But he verbally acquiesces. As much as is physically allowable. He's harder than steel. He's deeper than chromosomes. Materially fused with said woman more deeply than an ensuing chemical reaction. That's what he is. Eternally embedded into a female form from which he can never even hope to escape. It suits him just fine.

Porcelain feet somehow find their way to the back of his head. Her acrobatics never cease to amaze his foggy cranial process, but the motion draws his face closer to an opening demanding his immediate attention. Her lips are parted. As they should be, for his gravitate to the welcome offering and absorb feminine cries for more. He's been unusually silent, but upward thrusting of clamp-like hips and squeezing forces of internal sinew sees to that particular problem promptly.

He's molten. "Maka."

She's aqueous. "Again?"

"Maka?"

"My name?"

"Maka."

"One more time."

"Maaa-kaaaa." The last syllable is preceded by an impromptu explosion into something far sweeter than heaven. He's not flying, not falling, but transcending an alternate continuum where only sweat and flesh and fire exist.

The fire they've cultivated. The flame is still blazing hot, doubly engulfing slick skin and stringy mental connections. But it's brighter than a mere earthly pyre. Its connotations are sweet and death-defying. She abruptly comes apart as one pair of eyes locks steadfastly on the other.

He guides her through it with whispered affections and silk caresses. A second release is ultimately inevitable. He never leaves her line of sight.

She's fully convinced his eyes are stars. Minute ruby suns that somehow glow so intensely brilliant, she is pulled into his embrace like an orbiting green planet of which they jointly occupy.

Red is all she sees. Because the man possessing ruby orbs is all she needs.

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><p>c h a o s v i p e r . t u m b l r . c o m<p> 


	6. Surreal

**2. Surreal**

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><p>He doesn't know how to swing her. It's sort of like a clumsy dance; a perplexing promenade of swishes and missed steps. He's in control, so she's not stepping on his toes. She doesn't even have feet. But if he's not careful, he might accidentally graze the ground with her, and no one wants the kind of headache that brings.<p>

She's longer than he is. But her blade is skinnier, thinner, and less ovoid. Black and silver zigzags work their way up her flank, almost in the same manner red and black familiars do his. He wonders if this is a genetic trait - her father's is almost entirely black. Or has she simply spent too much time in his company?

She's also heavier. How in the world can such a tiny girl induce so much gravity? He chooses to keep his comments to himself, however, because she won't go easy on him for jabs about her weight. She's sensitive enough as a human. Why would it make a difference in an entirely new form?

To be honest, he doesn't care what she looks or feels like. He's wielding his meister, for Death's sake! He's allowed to touch her, use her, and experience her. Place his hands anywhere, handle her as _his_ weapon, for as long as he damn well pleases. The connotations of such a concept are frankly too loaded with pleasant possibilities for him to think clearly at the moment.

He hopes she forgives his sweaty palms and clammy breath on the warm steel of her blade. A gleam of reflection from the jubilant sun reveals her gazing at him expectantly in its shine. She's wondering why he's stopped practicing. He's questioning that, too. Maybe because she thinks he might be picturing her naked somewhere in there again. Except, that's not at the forefront of his mind. Because he can see her face. And all the worry that entails.

"Soul?"

"Just give me a breather."

"Harder than it looks?"

"Harder then it feels."

He never sees her when she uses him. He's always focused on the target, the enemy, the combat, anything other than the way her strong body and capable hands make mincemeat of an attacker, while using him as the tool. She's perfect. The best meister a scythe could ask for.

But now she's a weapon. And she's letting him brandish her as thoroughly as the promise he'd made to her in the beginning. To work for her trust. To always protect her. To never let her perish.

How can he possibly keep his word if she becomes his primary means of offense?

"Because you're my weapon," she says suddenly, that familiar echoey drone of her weapon voice like a new favorite song to his ears. She's been reading his mind again. Not that it's anything new. "And my meister, too."

His forehead rests where her image still looks out at him from the blade.

"What do I mean to you as a meister?"

Her upper half dissolves forth from the tip of her blade. Her arms find his shoulders, and her lips touch his own. _She's kissing him while still in weapon form. _His brain can't process this motion as reality. It's a dream. Surreal. A figment.

She's startled to taste salt on his lips, but she convinces herself it's from sweat and not fallen tears. She doesn't acknowledge his tears as a possibility, because then she just might cry, too. Yes. It's just sweat.

"Everything."

He laughs lightly, because the response is corny. Because it is typical Maka. Maybe this isn't a dream. Maybe he could be ready to take this next step with her. Reality is confirmed with a second kiss, and he immediately responds in kind.

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><p>c h a o s v i p e r . t u m b l r . c o m<p> 


	7. The Next You and Me

I can't recall the last time I was in a church. Well, other than during Soul and I's first encounter with Crona during the Sonson J. mission in Italy. Though I like to keep that particular memory in a dusty cupboard at the back of my mind, where painful thoughts and harsh recollections belong.

There's something unsettling about places of worship, with polished floors and high ceilings and incensed pews that make it impossible for any person's senses to function properly. A shallow mixture of old wood and sweaty people and someone's cheap cologne. It's a bit overwhelming, to say the least. The incessant mental image of a silver-haired boy being slashed violently through the chest also doesn't make my ability to withstand my current setting any easier.

Maybe it's because I'm a servant of Death. I don't assume every cathedral assimilates such floral augmentations into the decor on a regular basis. For one used to being among menacing skulls, dark hallways, dim candles, and floating orbs, it's a less-than-pleasant change to my usual surroundings. I simply wish I could more easily overcome weakness and misgivings and chase away dark memories.

At least the stained glass architecture and organ hymns are...nice?

Next to me, Tsubaki's hand snakes its way around my palm, squeezing in a valiant effort of comfort and mutual understanding. The blue skirt of her dress tickles the side of my leg and bare shoulder, which is probably a good indication she's standing too close. Or perhaps it's me.

"Ready?" she smiles warmly.

"Nooooo..." The sound of my own voice is frightening. Sort of like a frog being crushed underfoot. I can't believe I'm actually doing this. I can't believe that sound came from me.

The sanctuary of my friend's grasp is short-lived as she is ushered away to take her place in the processional order.

"You'll be great! See you shortly!" she whisper-shouts in my direction, barely audible above clamorous music. If only I could take her seriously.

_Worry-wart, Maka_, Soul would say. _Even on what should be the happiest day of your life, you're more frazzled than my hair on a bad day._

Soul sneaks his way into the back of my brain on a regular basis. Is it multiple personality disorder if its embodiment is standing less than fifty feet away? Maybe it's a sign we know each other too well. The singular concept of _me_ doesn't register in those moments. He's very good at occupying my heart, my home, my head, and even my very soul when the need arises.

Inconvenient for me, Head!Soul is privy to all my deepest stressors. Even things I can't muster the gusto to admit to Real!Soul, who's waiting patiently in line at the altar next to Tsubaki, Stein, Black Star, and the others.

I'm not supposed to see him until the fateful moment, but I just can't help myself. Peaking around the corner, I first witness Angela enthusiastically take the basket of flowers from Marie and begin her own merry journey down the perpetual aisle of my inevitable destiny. Further ahead, Soul is turned half-sideways toward Black Star, muttering something to the boisterous ninja under his breath.

I gasp. He's wearing the pinstripe suit.

Head!Soul instantly recognizes my qualms with the events about to unfold, and snickers quietly in my cranium. However, I don't think he's amused because of my fear. As a part of me, he embodies the objective vision I can't provide into my own self. He understands, but at the same time, won't take any of my shit. The funny thing is, we are both thoroughly scared shitless. He's just better at hiding it.

_I'm frightened, _I think to no one in particular. He still hears me, so I address him again. _What if we're not the same after this? I almost lost you in a place like this once._

_Do you believe in foreshadowing? _His voice is always gruffer in my mind. My head shakes. _Then why does the ceremony bother you so much?_

It's not that. _Can't you tell?_ I ask in my own mind.

We began our journey together as friends. Companions. Roommates. Meister and weapon. Then lovers. Every step of the way was new and exciting, but still part of the master plan: To make you the strongest weapon, and me, the strongest meister. We've done that. We're there. What comes next is something that didn't fall into the grand scheme I had for myself. For us. It came without warning.

_I didn't expect to fall so deeply in love with you, Soul. The gravity of what we're about to do together, the commitment we're about to make, it didn't hit me until now._

_And?... _I think we both need the answer.

Suddenly, the atmosphere changes, and the telltale symphony of the bridal march begins its heady melody upon my ears. A large hand is gently placed on my shoulder. Looking back, Papa's awkward smile causes the already-twisted knot in my throat to tighten. His puffy lips and moistened eyelids indicate he's been crying. I can barely prevent my own tears from falling, as well.

"I know you're nervous, Maka," he whispers in my ear behind unabashed sniffles. "Everything will be all right. That man" ….pointing to Soul... "loves you very much."

His eyes are warm, just like his arm that intertwines strongly with mine. His smile manages to ease my heart somewhat, and somewhere in the back of my head, Head!Soul breathes more easily. Papa leads me unsteadily through the doorway, into the bright lights of the main hall, and toward my future.

Soul turns to face me. His suit is pressed and hair somehow managed without the headband. I suppose I have Patti and Liz to thank for that. His eyes rove across my form, taking in the full ensemble of my gown. He's never seen me in it before, as I wanted it to be a surprise. Meeting his eyes, I see undeniable certainty and admiration swimming within them.

As Papa and I inch closer to the culmination of the ceremony, Soul's wavelength reaches out to mine, like an arm pulling me into the warmth of his embrace. Calming. Soothing. Confirming with every ounce of love inside that he is here to stay. For me, it is the affirmation I need to finally let go of my father's hand and allow him take his seat in the pew behind me.

I love Soul. He loves me. Nothing else matters, right?

_Are we going to be okay? _Head!Soul questions Papa's previous affirmation.

Destiny is standing before me, clad in suit and tie and smelling faintly of deodorant and spices. His eyes are pervious and the gateway to his soul. He smiles. I acquiesce and take his hand.

_More than okay, _I say to myself more confidently.


End file.
